The Science of Flirtation Remains Inexact
by tepid sponge bath
Summary: The Science of Flirtation remains horrendously inexact - even when Lestrade tries to help Sherlock out with the ladies.  A sister-story to "The  Horrendously Inexact  Science of Flirtation.


**Disclaimer: **The characters of _Sherlock _are not mine, nor is the story, nor are the characters from the original stories by Sir Arthur Conan Doyle. I make no monetary profit from this.

**The Science of Flirtation Remains Horrendously Inexact**

"Oh, God." Lestrade watched the scene with through his fingers, as if filtering it would lessen the sympathetic embarrassment.

"Believe me, there's been worse," said John from behind his pint.

"_Worse?_"

"Worse."

Sherlock slunk back to their table and it amazed the detective inspector that the baleful glare the woman was directing at him wasn't burning holes in the back of his jacket.

"Didn't go well, eh?"

"_Obviously._" Sherlock knocked back his drink and slammed the glass down on the table with much more violence than the poor thing deserved.

"You have no idea what you're doing, do you?" Lestrade stared at him in disbelief. The great Sherlock Holmes, capable of solving the thorniest of crimes from a mere fingernail clipping, utterly stumped by the simple art of flirting. The others back at the Yard would _love_ this. Especially Anderson. Well. Maybe telling Anderson would be too cruel.

"Of course I know what I'm doing," said Sherlock haughtily. "Your method follows the same basic process as John's, but is more direct, with considerably less subtle hints that sex is the preferred end result. You told me about it in great detail. You insisted on telling me in great detail before I tried anything, even if you didn't really believe John when he told you how bad I was at it." He shot a look at his flatmate. "Don't think for a minute that I can't tell what you two talk about when you go off for a pint together."

Lestrade leaned back in his seat, still unbelieving despite all the visual and auditory evidence presented, as Sherlock went on to say – almost whine – that he didn't know what he was doing wrong.

"Yeah, well, neither do I. Look, I've seen you at crime scenes. Have you," he asked, ignoring the warning look John was giving him, "ever tried approaching it like that? Like you want to get information out of them? I know you can make that work," he continued, despite John kicking his shins under the table. "Start with something small. Try to get a phone number."

"Do you have any idea," hissed John as Sherlock left to accost his next victim, "what you've told him to do?"

"Well, it might work. You must've seen how he does it, you know, turn almost normal. And he might be better talking to a girl over the phone. I used to be like that. All tongue-tied in person but bloody Shakespeare over the phone." Lestrade paused to consider this in the light of what he had seen that evening. "I mean, at least the worst she'll be able to do is slam the phone on him."

"But last week, last week, he tried being 'normal' and -"

And Sherlock swanned back, a cocktail napkin clutched triumphantly in his hand. It had a phone number on it.

"What did I tell you!" Lestrade addressed Sherlock, but saved the meaningful glance for John, who was looking dubious. "Well done, Sherlock!"

The consulting detective smiled broadly at them and signaled for another round of drinks. "Her name's Alice. Pretty girl…"

"What did you say to her, Sherlock?" asked John.

"…even if she is a bit dim."

"What. Did. You. Say. To her."

"Really, John, you don't have to take that tone. She's the sort who likes those programmes where cameras follow people about all day – she was talking to her friend about one. I told her that I was a casting director for a new one on the modern London woman, all very hush-hush now of course, but she's just what we will be looking for. I asked for her contact details in case we wanted to talk her about it." Sherlock turned in his chair to smile at her, and she blushed and gave him a little wave. "I told you she was a bit dim."

It was John's turn to give Lestrade a what-did-I-tell-you look.

"Well," said Lestrade, trying, _trying_ to salvage this, "she might have known you were just bluffing. Er. I've seen people do that. She might just like you regardless. Try – try giving her call, maybe…tomorrow…night…?"

"What? No, don't be daft! The dimness might be catching."

He did call the girl, though. John told Lestrade about it the next time they met for a drink. Sherlock never did say what happened but he had taken it out on the wall afterwards and stayed in a black sulk for days.


End file.
